Page 51

A BOUNCE AND A slam roused Bree from a drugged sleep.

She tried to say something, realized she was gagged, and moaned against the fabric. Breathing through her nose, she tried to open her eyes but found she was blindfolded.

Her wrists and ankles were bound tight. She lay on her left side on some kind of carpet and had been lying there long enough for her arm, shoulder, and hip to feel numb.

She rolled onto her back, aware that her head was splitting, that she was thirsty, and that there was an engine roaring dully somewhere. Bree swallowed against her parched throat, and her ears popped, which made her understand that someone had put plugs in them.

The drugs hit her again, made her woozy enough to want to sleep.

Whatever she was lying on bounced again; she was slammed against the carpet again, became more alert again, and finally got that she was in some kind of vehicle. Her instinct was to get the blindfold off, the gag out of her mouth, and the plugs from her ears.

But when she tried to raise her hands, she felt a tug at her ankles and could reach no higher than her throat. Her bonds were tied together somehow.

She fought a rising sense of panic. She could not give in to hysteria.

It won’t do you any good, Bree. You’ve got to calm down. Remember your training.

In the air force, she had taken an officer survival-training course. One of the first things she’d been taught was that no matter what, you had to remain calm. Assess your situation. Think clearly.

She forced herself to ignore how much she wanted the gag out. She forced herself to try to work out where she was and why.

But the drugs in her system made her swoon again. Eventually, she began to piece it together: The snowplow blocking the road. The man from the highway department pulling a gun.

He knew us. He knew who we were.

She recalled the gunman getting in the back seat of the Cherokee and ordering Sampson to drive.

John! Where is he?

And then she remembered the man injecting her neck with something. It had all gone to darkness until that bump.

How long have I been out? Where are they taking me? Is John here?

Bree rolled over again, felt the wheel well of the vehicle, a van of some sort. She rolled onto her back again, breathed through her nose, and caught the stale odor of sweat.

They bounced again and again. She slammed down each time.

Even through the earplugs she could hear the chassis squeaking in protest as they passed over washboard terrain that caused the vehicle to shake and vibrate, the feeling pounding into her bones, making her joints ache.

I need water, she thought before one of those swoons came again. This time the dizziness was accompanied by nausea, and she was certain she was going to puke.

She got frightened. If she vomited behind the gag, she was as good as dead.

Swallowing against the metallic taste flooding the back of her throat, she rammed her heels down hard enough to make a thump that she heard even through the plugs. She did it again and again.

Then she squealed and kicked her heels.

The vehicle slowed to a stop. She heard doors open and slam shut.

A bubble of cold air surrounded her, made her feel less sick. Then more doors opened. She felt hands on her. The hands dragged her out of the vehicle into a frigid wind and then sat her upright.

Fingers wrenched the gag from her mouth. “Water,” she croaked.

She felt the ties being cut. The blindfold came off next, and she was looking into the glare of sunlight reflecting off snow.

She squinted, turned away, and saw Toomey, the man who’d said he was from the highway department; he was standing there with a Glock in one hand and a plastic water bottle in the other. He gave her the bottle and Bree drank greedily, grateful for the way it washed her throat and filled her stomach.

Finished, she became aware of two men standing nearby in snow camouflage. They carried automatic weapons.

One of them took several steps to his right, revealing Sampson, who was sitting on a log, also drinking water, also looking dazed. Feeling more lightheaded than woozy now, she reached up under the wool hat she wore and pulled out the earplugs. She heard birds cry.

Her hands were cold. No gloves. She put her hands in her parka pockets, felt around. Her phone was gone.

Bree looked at Toomey. “Who are you? Where are you taking us?”

He gestured to an untracked trail leading into dense forest.

“I’m the janitor. Get moving.”